


Losing Faith

by acidpop25



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dreams, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Miscarriage, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:29:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acidpop25/pseuds/acidpop25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is going to have Eames' child. And then he wakes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing Faith

**Author's Note:**

> Fill of a prompt at inception_kink. To clarify, the mpreg is only dreamed and doesn't happen in reality, but it does have very real emotional fallout.

"What will we name him?" Eames asks. He is sitting propped up against the headboard, Arthur resting in the v of his legs. Arthur smiles slightly and leans back against the solid warmth of Eames' chest.

"Her," he corrects, "what will we name _her_."

"You don't know that."

"I know that," Arthur tells him, and rests his slender hands on the swell of his belly. Eames strokes over the skin, callused fingers tender, and presses a kiss to the side of Arthur's neck.

"All right," he agrees amiably, "what will we name her?"

Arthur is quiet for a moment, lost in thought, and watches Eames lace their fingers together over stretched skin. They have time, lots of time, to decide.

"Faith," he says softly, "we'll name her Faith."

And then Arthur wakes up.

He has been in this business long enough that natural dreaming is rare for him, but sometimes, sometimes it still happens. Before he can think about it, Arthur's hands go to his abdomen; it is flat and muscled and exactly the same way as it always is, but there is no relief at the thought. Something in his chest aches indistinctly, and Arthur draws several slow, deep breaths and looks over next to him. Eames is still sound asleep, and Arthur carefully extracts himself from the bed and slips into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. The fluorescent lights are glaringly harsh, and Arthur stares almost unseeingly into the mirror, watching his reflection like he is seeing someone else as his hands trace the slim lines of his body.

He flicks the light off and slides back into bed beside Eames, but he doesn't fall back asleep for the rest of the night.

* * *

"You look tired," Eames remarks, and Arthur shrugs it off.

"Wore me out last night, I guess."

Eames smirks around his cigarette and flicks some ash off the balcony. "In that case, you're welcome."

Arthur manages a faint smile and he intercepts the path of the cigarette to capture Eames' lips. Eames tastes of smoke overlaying toothpaste, and his free arm pulls Arthur in closer. Arthur sighs into Eames' mouth and wraps his arms around his shoulders, and feels rather than sees Eames stub out his cigarette on the balcony rail a moment later.

"I could tire you out a little more," he offers, pulling Arthur inside.

"'m supposed to meet Dom–"

"–at noon," Eames finishes for him, shoving the balcony door shut and quickly divesting Arthur of his shirt. "You've got a little time."

"I–" his voice stutters out when he's pushed on to the bed and a strong hand slides into his pants, and– "yes, okay, there's time."

"Knew you'd see it my way," Eames says with a wicked grin. Arthur is much easier than he lets on.

By the time he's cleaned up and dressed, Arthur is running late after all, but Dom has the tact not to comment when he greets him and lets him into the house. James and Philippa are immediately clambering all over him, and Arthur grins and scoops Philippa into his arms before something in the pit of his stomach twists and goes cold. She chatters happily into his ear as he carries her to the kitchen for her lunch, but Arthur barely hears her bright, laughing voice. Something isn't right.

Dom sets sandwiches in front of the children and leans against the counter, keeping an eye on them while he talks to Arthur in a quiet voice against their chatter.

"I've got some work for you," he murmurs, "if you're interested. Local, low risk, good pay."

"Is Ariadne free?"

"She already agreed," Dom answers with a smile, and God, it's still so nice to see him smiling. Arthur nods.

"Sounds good. Do you have the details?"

"I'll hand them off later. Drink?"

"Water, please." He accepts the glass Dom hands him, his free hand fidgeting with the die in his pocket. "You don't still dream, do you?"

"Not on my own, no. Not for years." He regards Arthur thoughtfully. "I wouldn't think you would, either, though no one's quite the same."

"I don't usually," Arthur agrees, "but I did last night. I hadn't since before the Fischer job."

"Sounds like your subconscious must really have had something to say, then," Dom says with a shrug. Arthur glances over at the children and takes another drink of his water.

"I guess it must have," he murmurs, and changes the subject.

* * *

Arthur dreams.

"Look at you," Eames murmurs fondly as Arthur's shirt falls open, and he starts kissing a line down the swell of his belly. "My beautiful Arthur."

Arthur sighs and threads his fingers into Eames' hair. "You're going to be such a good dad," he says, and Eames looks up at him with soft blue eyes.

"You think so?"

"I do," Arthur says, absolute certainty in his voice. "You'll spoil her terribly, of course, but she'll adore you."

"Everyone adores me," Eames answers with a grin, "but I'm glad you think so." Another kiss, and his hands move to cradle Arthur's stomach. "I hope she has your eyes. And your dimples."

"Hush," Arthur says, but he looks pleased in spite of himself and tugs Eames up to kiss him on the lips this time.

"You'll be a good father too, darling," Eames murmurs against his mouth, and then Arthur is awoken by the insistent blare of the alarm clock. He makes a protesting sound and curls up on his side, arms wrapping around his middle. He feels sick.

"Arthur?" Eames queries. "You okay?"

"Fine," Arthur says hoarsely, and reaches for the loaded die in the nightstand. It comes up six, six, six, over and over again, but Arthur just wants to be dreaming. Eames' hand comes to rest on his shoulder, fingers kneading softly at the muscle.

"You're not dreaming, darling," Eames says, and Arthur sits up and tucks his knees to his chest.

"I _know_ ," he snaps, but there's strain in his voice that doesn't sound at all like irritation. He almost, almost decides to question him, but he knows that most of the time that isn't very helpful when it comes to Arthur.

But Eames can wait.

* * *

Arthur falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, and Eames watches him carefully as his breathing goes deep and even, as the tension melts out of his face and body.

Eames is a thief, used to moving silently, and he opens the case of the PASIV and slips the IV into Arthur's wrist without disturbing his sleep in the slightest. Eames lets out a soft breath and lies back on the bed alongside him, hooking himself up and sinking into Arthur's dreams.

He finds himself in a park and disguises himself before going any further, becoming a nondescript young brunette so he won't attract attention. The dreamscape is peaceful, serene, not at all what Eames would have expected from Arthur's tense discontent in his waking hours. But apparently it is only his conscious mind that's unhappy– his subconscious is placid, and Eames manages to track down Arthur without interference.

Arthur. A very _pregnant_ Arthur. Eames stops in bewilderment, then slips behind the trees to get close enough to spy on Arthur and his projection of Eames, who are sitting together on a park bench.

"Cobb's grumbling about losing his point man, of course, but–" Arthur breaks off, dark eyes going wide and round, and dream-Eames straightens and looks at him in worry.

"What is it? Is something wrong?"

Arthur shakes his head, and his face breaks into a brilliant smile. "She kicked."

"She did?"

"Feel," Arthur says, and grabs Eames' hand and sets it on his stomach. There is a silence, waiting, and then Arthur jumps a little bit and Eames draws a startled breath.

"That's..." Eames shakes his head slightly, speechless for once. "God, Arthur, we're having a _baby_."

Arthur laughs and wraps his arms around Eames. "We are," he agrees, "and it's going to be amazing."

The real Eames slips away and shoots himself awake.

* * *

"So," Arthur says to him, "want to tell me why I woke up this morning with an IV prick in my wrist?"

"I was worried about you," Eames says truthfully, and Arthur looks away.

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit."

"What you saw wasn't _real_ , Eames," Arthur says, but his voice catches in his throat, and Eames just gathers the other man into his arms, ignoring his reticence.

"It was real to you," Eames murmurs, "wasn't it?"

Arthur's eyes squeeze shut, and Eames holds him tighter.

"I didn't know you felt that way. About... about us."

"Neither did I." Arthur's voice is thick, choked up. "But I... it felt... right. Even though it's impossible." He buries his face in Eames' shoulder, and his voice is muffled. "This is what feels like the bad dream."

"Oh, darling," Eames murmurs, helplessly, and something in Arthur seems to break. He cries almost soundlessly, just tears slowly soaking through Eames' shirt and shoulders trembling. No noise, no wracking sobs.

"Wake me up," Arthur whispers. His eyes glisten when he looks up at Eames, and then his gaze drops down, his hands search for a weight, a roundness that isn't there, that was never there, that won't ever be there.

"You're not asleep," Eames answers gently, and he pulls Arthur's hand from his stomach to set it over his totem, to curl long fingers around the loaded die. Arthur lets it fall to the ground and does not look to see what number it lands on.

"Her name was Faith," Arthur tells him, "and every morning I lose her all over again."

"Then you have to let her go. Let her go, darling."

Arthur dreams of blood and desperate pain all come much, much too soon. He slits his throat open on a scalpel and wakes in Eames' arms, and this time when he cries it's like his sobs are being ripped from his throat. Eames puts the PASIV aside and lets Arthur cry himself to genuine exhaustion in his arms, whispering incoherent reassurances until Arthur at last lies still against him.

Arthur doesn't dream again.


End file.
